


Some Days

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: Real Person Fiction, Troy (2004) RPF
Genre: 100-word sections, F/M, Implied Relationships, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-24
Updated: 2005-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, Jennifer does absolutely nothing simply because she <i>can.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Days

**Author's Note:**

> Set toward the end of filming for _Troy_ and the _Friends_ finale. Inspired by pictures from the red carpet in Cannes.

Some days, she does absolutely nothing simply because she _can._

She knows if she wasn't _her,_ wasn't a "star," was just a person, other people wouldn't even think twice, or even once. "Nothing" is okay for everyone else, but if someone like _her_ is seen leaving a salon, it's vanity; seen sitting by the seaside, it's laziness; seen eating a salad, it's anorexia.

She tells herself she doesn't care - that's what publicists are for, after all.

She's _choosing_ to do nothing. Right.

But some days she does absolutely nothing because she doesn't know what else to do with herself.

*

Brad calls and tells her about red sunsets and blue water and yellow birds. "You really out to come out, all the houses are white with blue shutters."

"I thought that was Santorini," she asks, but the intonation is off and she's distracted by a brown spot on the lawn. Should get that taken care of.

"Yeah, well, it's like that here, too." He laughs and she imagines him raising a hand to push too-long hair out of his face, sweat streaking it brown instead of his bright blond. "What you up to over there?"

She pauses, wonders. "Oh, nothing."

*

She's stuck on the freeway, dead stop, air conditioner working overtime when she picks up her cell phone, scrolls through the numbers and pushes "send."

International calls take longer to connect, but it's only a few moments before she hears the tinny ring echoing in her ear. Voicemail kicks in and she realizes it must be an ungodly hour on the other side of the world.

She hangs up before she can leave a corny message, something like, "I miss you, I love you, when are you coming home?" that will just embarrass the both of them in the morning.

*

"You don't think it's, I dunno…" she trails off, twisting and twirling and admiring the sparkle of the gown under the soft lights of the shop. She fidgets, lifts her arms, squints at the mirror. Her hands fall to her shoulders, fingers playing at the halter-top neck, fine beading cutting into her palms. "Boring?"

"What?" the stylist asks around a clutch of pins held fast between her lips. "Darling, you couldn't look boring if you tried. You're gorgeous."

"Yes, well." She clutched at the dress, looked down at her bare feet, peeking out from the hem of the dress. "Fine."

*

The finale comes and goes and she thinks she should be more upset, but she's really just relieved. She feels bad, and tells the only person she thinks that will understand that she wants to cry but can't over porterhouse steaks and blood-red wine.

Courtney smiles, cheeks forming rounded curves now instead of the lines and hollows Jenn had become so used to in that dark-framed face. "Honey, we all feel that way, doesn't mean anything." She shrugs, sips at her water, dodging the cucumber slice bobbing to the top. "It's just over. Take some time. Do nothing. Don't worry."

*

She tries to take Courts advice to heart, tries to relax, but it feels wrong, makes her skin tight and eyes dry. She drinks bottle after bottle of water, pounds the treadmill, does Pilates. She reads scripts, goes to meetings, thinks hard about her next project. She's done all right in the past, made good choices, been able to leave Rachel behind. Mostly.

She wishes she could do something crazy, cut all her hair off or dye it purple, get a tattoo, buy a motorcycle. Well, she could do those things, but she won't. And she's not really sure why.

*

"What do you want?" she asks Brad over the phone, him in New York, she in LA. "Really?"

"For you to be happy," he answers, and her eyes close because she knows he means it.

"People keep asking about kids." Her eyes are still closed, fingers reaching blindly for the glass of wine she poured right before answering the phone. She takes a mouthful, bigger than she expected, liquid streaming down her cheek. "And you keep answering."

He pauses, a sharp inhalation of breath that makes her think he might be smoking again. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

*

She meets him at the door, hands pressed to her mouth in surprise at his hair (or lack thereof). They hug, his arms around her middle and lifting her off the floor. Her hands fall to his head, the fuzz covering his scalp prickling the pads of her fingers.

"I can't believe you shaved it off," she whines into his shoulder as she clutches at him. He lets her down gently and she presses her face against his chest, peeking up from behind a handful of jacket. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Lost a bet," he replies, pulling away, smiling.

*

"Orlando? The pirate boy?" she asks, jerking her wrist around to swirl the wine in her glass. She sits up, tucks her bare feet under her legs, feels the couch give way. "What was the bet?"

"It's not important," he replies, hiding a smile behind his glass, hand up and rubbing at his stubble as he drinks. "Besides you can ask him yourself. I've invited him for dinner."

"Really?" she asks, head cocked to the side. "And just who's going to cook?"

Another sip and his glass is empty. He stretches out, drops a hand on her shoulder. "I am."

*

The grill is blazing by the time the buzzer goes off, Brad wielding never-before-used barbeque forks and spits and knives, turning and burning slabs of meat. She palms the cordless, clicks it on, is greeted with a crisp British accent. A few words and she buzzes him in, tells him to come around the back of the house when he gets in.

"How will I know where to go?" he asks. She thinks he might be laughing, but can't be sure – could be the accent.

"Just follow the smoke," she replies, smiling.

"Right!" This time she's sure that he's laughing.

*

She disappears into the house to get more wine, promises to grab the salt and pepper while she's in there. The house is shadowed and still, lights off to preserve electricity. She walks through the living room, all stark lines and dark colors - Brad's choosing, lifted straight from pictures and photographs he excitedly showed her from books he'd collected over the years. Sometimes she worries about the harsh corners, the high tables, all the places a child could get in trouble. But today she's just worrying about getting the cork out of the wine bottle without breaking a nail.

*

There's laughter when she steps back outside, wine bottle in one hand, extra glass in the other. Brad looks up from the grill, quickly, gives her a smile, nods toward Orlando, who's leaning up against the deck railing. "Jenn, this is Orlando. Orlando, Jenn."

Orlando pushes off the railing, pulling hands from the depths of his pockets. He bounds across the patio, hugs her, wine and all, kisses her cheeks and laughs in her ears. "You're _so_ gorgeous, both of you, it's ridiculous, really."

"Look who's talking, kid." She laughs, presents him with a glass, and pours him a drink.

*

"I couldn't believe it, it was just _wild,"_ Orlando's saying, and she's trying to listen, but the wine was good and plentiful and Brad's hand is on her thigh under the table and her skirt is bunching up under his fingers and she keeps biting her lip, thinking he'll get the hint, but he's staring straight ahead, nodding at whatever Orlando's talking about, pursing his lips and humming in agreement, chiming in with "It was crazy, Jenn, you should have seen it," and some "Yeah, and what about that time in Malta with the bartender? Now that was absolutely insane."

*

Brad's fingers press against her inner thigh, thumb against the seam of her underwear. She jumps from her seat, smoothing her skirt down as she goes. A quick look around and she grabs their plates. "I'll get dessert," she says, stuttering a bit as she circles around, throws Brad a death glare when she passes behind Orlando, reaching over to grab his plate.

"Oh, I'll help," Orlando says, plucking the plates from her hands and gesturing toward the door. "Lead on."

Jenn looks up at him and is about to protest when Brad stands, says he'll light the Tiki torches.

*

"You have a lovely home," Orlando says, his voice echoing off the walls, reverberating against the faraway ceiling. "It's quite cool."

"It's all Brad, he did it all," she says before she thinks about it, feels a little stupid for saying it. Her cheeks are warm from the wine, her belly warm from Brad's hand.

"That makes sense," he responds, looking down at her. "It goes, you know? Matches."

They step into the kitchen and she takes the plates, drops them in the sink. "Matches what?" She turns to see him leaning against the counter, looking at her appraisingly.

"You."

*

She should probably get upset right about now, rankled by this boy in her house, in the kitchen she never uses, but he's so damned earnest and she thinks he might be on to something, so she crosses the room, stands in front of him, nudging his trainers with her bare toes.

"When I was a kid, I would sit on my dad's lap and help him with lines," she starts, stops and laughs. "I'd imagine living in a house from his show. Everything pale pink."

"Pink?" he asks, folding her into a hug.

She nods against his shoulder. "Pink."

*

They step back outside, the breeze smelling faintly of citronella.

"Tell me," she says, sitting down. "What was the bet?" She picks up her wine glass, filled to the brim by her darling husband while she was inside.

Orlando pauses, half-sitting, half-standing. He chuffs, drops the rest of the way down with an "oomph." "What bet?" he asks, face placid and completely composed.

She sips the wine, lets it roll around in her mouth for a brief moment before swallowing. She stretches one leg out, bare foot connecting with his denim-clad knee. He jumps, she smiles. "The bet Brad lost."

*

After a story involving a confused barman, copious amounts of tequila, and skinned knee, Jenn's curiosity was satisfied. They ate dessert, cheese and chocolate and thin wafer crackers cut with lemon-flavored ice, their hands messy, leaving smudges on their plates and napkins. Orlando pulled stories from her she hadn't told in years, about the time Matthew and Matt got stuck in an elevator for seven hours and how she sang them lullabies over the phone, about the time she got lost in Paris on her way to a location for a shoot, her French terrible and sense of direction worse.

*

The sky was beginning to lighten when he left, all three of them yawning and stretching and stumbling to the driveway. Brad is gripping her hand firmly, his other hand clapping Orlando on the back, thanking him for coming. They smile and hug, Brad still holding her hand. The two men pull away, smile at each other and go in for another hug, chests pressing, mouths against necks. She finds herself staring at the spectacle, fuzzy from the wine and lack of sleep.

"Good night, lovely lady." Orlando says over Brad's shoulder, pressing a wet smacking kiss to her cheek.

*

She waves good-bye until the gate clicks shut, Brad's arms tight around her waist, hands splayed against her stomach.

"Let's go to bed," he says, mouth close to her ear and she shivers. They barely make it into the front door before he presses her up against the wall, her skirt around her waist and his hands tugging at her underwear. He kisses her, hard, mouth open and tongue pulling all sorts of noises out of her throat.

His belt buckle jangles and he pushes into her, the zip of his jeans pressing into her thighs, making her skin scream.

*

He fucks her like that, head bowed and lips pressed against her collarbone, hot breath fogging her skin. Her head falls back and hits the wall and he shifts, cradles her with a warm hand, shushes her whimpers.

"Missed you, missed this," he chants over and over again, and she thinks she believes him, her knees drawing up and toes curling against the back of his calves. Her teeth are vibrating, his tongue against her neck, wetness dripping down her thighs.

She holds her breath as he moves his fingers against her, twisting and pinching and making her see white.

*

They don't set the alarm, but Brad's out of bed at 8am, shuffling the sheets and attempting to be quiet. She pretends to be asleep when he kisses from her shoulder to her neck, gives up with a good natured "hmph," and leaves the room. The shower kicks on and she opens her eyes, rolling onto her back and drawing up her knees. She needs just one hand, two fingers, circling and dipping, her eyes squinched shut. Chocolate brown eyes and pursed lips and she thinks she knows what's going on here and why doesn't Brad just tell her already?

*

The water stops, feet squeaking against tiles and fabric rustling. He steps in the room, sees her awake and smiles. He starts to talk and she shakes her head.

"Come here." It should be a question, but she's in no mood. He cocks his head, his smile fading, but he does it, crawls across the bed. He sniffs, and his mouth opens again. She keeps him silent by slipping her still-wet fingers in his mouth. His lips close around them, cheeks hollowing and eyes fluttering shut and she thinks it might be one of the prettiest things she's ever seen.

*

She watches him, pink lips, pink tongue. Her diamond bumps against his chin, spinning it around her finger and cutting into her palm. She pulls her fingers from mouth and his eyes open. They exchange a look, silent and heavy. She looks away first, pushing the sheets down as she turns over, raising up on her hands and knees. He moves behind her, damp towel falling on their bent legs. Her fingers busy themselves with fistfuls of sheets as he reaches around and cups her breasts. He begins to move and she gasps, arching her back and following the movement.

*

"Tell me," she gasps out, in time with the push and pull. "Did you and he—"

"No," he says, quickly. "No."

"Why not?" she asks, the pillow cool against her cheek.

"Wanted." _In._ "This." _Out._ "You."

"Me?" Her knee slips down the sheet and she pushes up with her elbows, the movement sparking something in her stomach.

"Yes," he pulls out, breathless.

She pushes back, a cough building at the back of her throat. "What about me?"

He groaned, dropped down to press his chest against her back, his mouth against her shoulder. "Wanted to watch you fuck him."

*

"Does he know?" She smoothes the sheet down, Brad mirroring her movement on the other side of the bed.

He sweeps pillows to the floor with a swift arm and shrugs. "I don't know." His eyes are trained on the bed, fingers folding over the top sheet with military precision.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Her hands are on her hips and she thinks she should feel silly, standing there naked and bitching and talking about _this._

He shrugged again, tugged on the comforter. "Got pretty drunk a couple of times. Could've said something."

"I can't believe you."

*

She uses the phone in her office, closes the door against the clunk of weights and Brad's grunts as he works out. Her thighs twinge and she reminds herself to work out tomorrow, get back into the swing of it before she grows tired and complacent.

Paper crinkles under her fingers and she smoothes it out, punches in the number she stole from Brad's cell that morning.

Two rings and a click, Orlando's prerecorded voice projecting smiles and good humor and asking her to leave a message.

She does, clipped words, and hangs up before she can take it back.

*

Brad's nearly passed out on the couch, book resting on his stomach, glasses perched on his nose, bottle of beer sweating on the floor. She tells him she's going out to pick something up for Courtney, for the baby and he nods, blows her a kiss as she waves her goodbye.

She pulls up to the restaurant, a signless eatery with a back entrance she uses often. She walks through the kitchens, kisses the sous chef hello, hugs the sommelier. He shows her to her table, Orlando already sitting there with a half-gone glass of wine and a dog-eared book.

*

"So," she starts, smiles up at the sommelier as he fills her glass. He leaves with a bow and Jenn focuses her attention on Orlando, who pushes the book to the side and leans forward. "What did Brad tell you?"

Orlando frowns, shoulders up and forehead creased. "I don't—"

"Don't play dumb with me, Mr. Bloom," she interrupts, words crisp as the linen napkin she spreads on her lap with quick fingers. "Tell me."

He took a deep breath and settled into his chair, fingers to his mouth. "You really want to know?"

"Not really, but tell me anyway."

*

It takes less than two glasses of wine for the whole story, from dinner to trying to buy the bar, to stumbling home to hands under shirts and mouths on necks and rowdy laughter and threatening neighbors. Orlando tells the story with none of the boisterous enthusiasm she's used to from him, his hands folded on his lap and his shoulders still. He looks her in the eye, though, even if he doesn't smile until he gets to the end of the story, when his cheeks color and he tells her that he said yes, yes, of course, yes, course.

*

"Come home with me," she tells him, fingers loosely looped in his as she shows him how to navigate the kitchens. "Where's your car?"

"Took the hotel service, like you said," he replies, looking around the kitchen and ducking to avoid low-hanging pots and pans.

"Good." She squeezed his fingers and pulled him toward the door. "Stay here." She dropped his hand and sprinted to her car. Seconds later, she pulled up to the door, waved him in. "Hurry. Before someone sees."

He folded himself into the car, pushed a cap over his hair and slipped on his sunglasses. "Go."

*

They pull into the driveway, the house dark except for a few lights.

She unfolds herself from the car, purse in hand, leaning back in to look at Orlando. "Follow my lead."

He nods, a bit bewildered and she has a pang of _Oh, my God, what am I doing?_ but pushes it down with the cough that's been sitting at the back of her throat for hours now.

Two car doors slam closed and she speeds up the walkway and opens the door, throwing her purse down on the floor and kicking off her shoes.

The door closes softly.

*

Orlando is warm behind her, sun-baked skin radiating heat through her light jacket. She shrugs it off, his fingers plucking it from her shoulders and easing it down her arms.

"Brad?" she calls into the darkened house, receives no answer. She turns around, grabs the jacket and it joins her purse on the floor. Orlando stands there with his hands out and she puts her hands in his, and raises her voice again. "Brad, are you home?"

Orlando tightens his fingers around hers at Brad's voice. "Yeah, what're you doing, babe?"

She squeezes his hands and he clears his throat.

*

"Nothing, Brad." His voice is lower-pitched, raspy. She raises herself on tip-toes, presses her mouth against his, tongue snaking out to lick at the pressed seam.

"Orli?" Brad calls, surprised and a little bit confused. Thumps of bare feet on tile and Jenn knows exactly when he's going to turn the corner, and pulls away from Orlando just in time.

"Nothing, _babe,"_ she says, coy and light, and it's not her, it's _Rachel._ She swings their linked hands back and forth, tilts her chin to the ground and tosses her hair. "But look who I found while I was out."


End file.
